Bitter Grounds

“They say the name Valeria comes from the Latin word valere, which means “to be strong,” or “to be worthy,“. It originated in ancient Rome, where it was often given to children of noble or influential families, guess that was my first mistake why couldn’t I just go with Caitlyn or Amber something normal ’cause karma is real and fuck does it have a plan for me.”

Entry 1

VA

In 2005, my parents tried to kill me. Yup, at the ripe old age of four. At least they were considerate enough to let my brain develop a little before they drove it straight into my bedroom wall. That was the first time I escaped death. You heard that right only the first, because apparently I never fucking learn.

It’s been twenty years since then, and somehow, I’ve managed to make a life for myself. No more missions or taking orders. Unless, of course, it’s coffee orders. Then I’m all for it, because surprise, surprise it pays the bills for my little out-of-the-way coffee shop. Originally, I wanted a spot in the middle of town, but it turns out that shit is pricey as hell. And playing “dead” to the biggest crime family in the state, well, that comes at a cost. The cost? Paranoia, a constant fear of being found, and really expensive security systems that I can’t for the life of me figure out how to use. Let’s just say I’m not exactly one with technology. That’s what happens when you grow up isolated.

Joining the real world? That was its own kind of nightmare. Learning how to interact with people, figuring out that money makes everything spin, that it’s the only thing that makes the world go around. It’s amazing how quickly you adapt when the alternative is getting buried under the weight of your own stupidity. My time working for a major crime family did teach me one thing: survival. Unfortunately for them, those lessons backfired. Oh, I used a few of those shady skills to get where I am now illegally, for the most part but hey, look at me. I’m living my best life. My final “fuck you,” I guess.

“BEEP, BEEP, BEEP.”

I don’t know why I bother setting the alarm anymore. I’m always awake before it goes off. Guess it makes me feel more normal, like I have my shit together like I’m part of this fucked up human race. One of these days, maybe I’ll actually wake up to it instead of using it as some kind of obnoxious decoration.

As soon as the sound cuts through the air, I drag myself out of bed, stumbling through the familiar motions. A quick shower nothing fancy and then I throw on my go-to: a white T-shirt, light blue three-quarter jeans. Comfort over style? Maybe. But at least it lets me move. I’ve spent enough time trying to outrun my past that I’m not about to get trapped in something stiff and uncomfortable. Ponytail? Check. A quick swipe of mascara and gloss? Done. It’s not much, but makeup costs money.

When I escaped the organisation, I didn’t just lose 17 years of my life I became a walking, talking contradiction. I didn’t want to stand out, but turns out, being a striking redhead with skin so pale you could mistake it for ivory wasn’t exactly common in our little town. I’ve learned to use it to my advantage, of course. My hair falls nearly to my waist, strawberry-blonde and unruly, my eyes are a piercing green that I’ve found tends to unsettle people, not sure if it’s because of the colour or what lays behind them. And I have to admit walking down the street, I’m always aware of the sleazy stares from the men around here.

After finishing my morning routine, I head downstairs to open up the shop. It’s a cozy little two-story building. I’ve turned the bottom floor into a coffee shop soft, floral vibes with whitewashed wood, exposed brick, and ivy crawling up the walls like it owns the place. I made this space mine in a way I never could with the places I was stuck in before. Up top is my apartment, a tiny studio where I can actually sleep in a real bed. It’s not much, but it’s mine. For the first time in my life, I have my own space, something to call my own. And let me tell you, decorating it felt like the world’s most personal victory.

The apartment is small, The bedroom and bathroom are tucked up a flight of stairs, and everything else is open-plan: kitchen, living area, all on the ground floor. It’s perfect. Just enough room to breathe. And the design? Well, let’s just say, I went all out. The moment I had a roof over my head that wasn’t cracked or leaking and covered in dry blood, I decorated it like I had all the damned money in the world. A little gaudy? Maybe. But it’s home. And in my world, home doesn’t always mean safe it just means that for now, no one’s trying to kill me. I’ll take it.

It’s about 7:30 when I open the shop. I flip the ‘We’re Open’ sign to face the street, and I smile to myself a little. I remember the day I learned what those signs were for. I was seventeen. I had just escaped the organization, and I really needed a new outfit. So, naturally, I broke into a clothing shop 45 minutes after they had closed. Had no clue shops don’t stay open 24/7. When the door didn’t open, I didn’t waste any time. Picked the lock and let myself in. Of course, two employees came out from the back, scared the hell out of them and they gave me a lecture that could’ve shaken even god himself. But they backed off when they saw the state my clothes were in tattered, dirty, barely covering me. The whole time, I was tripping over my words, spitting out apologies in a mess of stutters, explaining that I had the money to pay, I just didn’t know why the door was locked.

They thought I was a thief. They probably thought I was something worse. But instead of calling the cops, they offered me tea. Yeah, tea. And we sat there talking for hours while they did their best to explain how the world works. I even came back the next day kinda terrified they were gonna call the cops and I’d get sent back. But they didn’t. They let me buy some clothes actual nice clothes and we ended up striking up a friendship, i still get the vibe they think i’m some rich runaway princess as i didn’t tell them how i got the money for my shop or know how common everyday knowledge managed to escape a 17 year old girl, no phone or anything other then the clothes on my back but Funny how life works, they spoke to the owner, a really nice old man and he offered me a job until i was 22 and went on to buy my shop, Those women were my first real customers when I opened my coffee shop, the kindness they showed me that day will forever be engraved on my brain.

I pull myself out of my thoughts and start prepping for the first rush of the day. There’s never telling what kind of chaos will walk through the doors. Not all of it’s good, but it’s my chaos now. It’s mine to satisfy.

“There she is.”

I turn my head toward the entrance, my eyes scanning the midday rush until they land on a familiar face. Every time Maxine opens her mouth, my heart rate spikes, though I know she’s harmless, she has this uncanny ability to command my attention no matter how many times I see her.

“Hey, Max, your usual?” I ask, flashing her a grin as she slides into her spot in the corner booth. I already know what’s coming, but I ask anyway. It’s a ritual at this point.

“It’s like you can read my mind,” Max laughs, the sound warm and effortless. Her voice is one of those rare kinds that makes everything else fade into the background. I turn to the station, effortlessly preparing her lavender iced latte, a drink she’s come to expect from me without asking, as if it’s a secret code between us.

“I’ve spent enough time perfecting the art of caffeinated telepathy,” I joke, turning to make her lavender iced latte. It’s a drink I started making for her on a whim, but now it’s practically her signature drink. I top it with a little dried lavender flower.

Maxine Payne was the first person I really bonded with when I opened this shop. Our friendship started off as the weirdest of encounters. She’d had some falling-out with her best friend, and in a moment of sheer pettiness, she loudly declared me her new best friend. It was like a scene out of a rom-com, only with less kissing and more passive-aggressive coffee orders. She’d never admit it, but I know she can’t resist coming back here every day. It’s the coffee... and maybe the charm (okay, mostly the coffee).

Maxine is, quite simply, perfect. I’ve known her for a little over two years now, and in that time, I’ve never seen her have a bad hair day, I’m convinced she wakes up with hair that looks like it’s been professionally styled by magic. Dark, curly hair, I don’t even know what “3A” curly hair means, and olive-toned skin that practically glows against the contrast of her hazel-green eyes. She could be a runway model, but she stands out even without the spotlight. I’d sell my soul to know her skincare routine. She’s a little taller than me standing at 5′10” with curves that would make even the most famous models jealous.

But it’s not just her appearance that grabs attention. Max is sharp-witted, blunt to the point of being brutal at times, and a little too honest for someone as beautiful as she is. She could probably be a little more careful with her words, but I like the way she tells it like it is. In a world of pretenses, Max is the kind of person you don’t need to decode she’s refreshingly, unapologetically herself.

I remember the first time we met, just after she’d declared me her new best friend. The next day, she came in for coffee, gave me a sly smile, and challenged me to guess her favorite drink. It seemed like an innocent enough question, not knowing I’d spent the better part of my life trying to master the art of reading people. I decided to serve her something I had been debating putting on the menu, a lavender iced latte

The look on her face when she took her first sip is something I’ll never forget. After a moment of stunned silence, she finally muttered, “You’re interesting.”

The next day, she came back, even more radiant than usual, practically glowing with energy. She declared that I was a “ghost.” I mean, I know I’m pale, but ghost? Really? To retaliate, I called her a “fried apple,” not even knowing that could be taken offensively. She looked at me with this blank expression, then burst into laughter genuine, uncontrollable laughter. It was the first time I’d laughed so hard I thought I might cry.

I quickly inform the rest of my team that I’m stepping away for 5, I bring Max’s lavender iced latte over, topping it with a dried lavender flower and a complimentary chocolate chip cookie. Her eyes sparkle as she looks up at me, her gaze always so intense, yet playful.

“So,” I ask, taking a seat across from her, “Any new gruesome stories today? Something that’ll make me want to double-check the locks tonight?”

“I’ve got a crazy one for you,” she says, voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “So, this old dude came in a few days ago with some serious abdominal pain, right? Doc said he was just backed up, low on fiber, and sent him home. Well, this morning he shows up again this time in an ambulance. Turns out he had sliced open his own stomach. Why? Because he had a shit ton of meth stashed in his abdomen.”

“Wait, what?” I gasp in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

Max smirks, shaking her head. “No, I just read that on Reddit. You think anything that exciting happens in this town? Nah. I wish my life was half as exciting as that. But nope, I spend my days treating hypochondriac teenagers who think a paper cut is the end of the world.”

We both laugh at the absurdity of it all, and I enjoy the fleeting moments of lightheartedness that only Max can bring into my world.

“By the way, how’s the security system going?” she asks, picking up her latte. “Did you check out that link I sent?”

I grimace, looking down at my phone as though it betrayed me. “I swear, I’ve watched that tutorial like ten times. It’s all gibberish. I think I’d have better luck understanding ancient hieroglyphics.”

Max’s face softens into a teasing smile. “I’ll come by after close and help you out. If you need something that sophisticated, there’s probably a damn good reason, right?”

I raise an eyebrow, ignoring the knot forming in my stomach. “What do you mean by that?”

She leans in, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “You don’t have insurance on this place, do you?”

I smack her lightly on the shoulder, laughing. “Oh, come on. I’m just trying to make a decent cup of coffee. I’m not running a secret black market here.”

But before she can respond, my eyes flick to the counter where Jess, one of my servers, is looking a little uncomfortable. She’s smiling at three men who’ve just walked in, but there’s something about the way they’re standing like they’re having a quiet discussion that involves more eyebrow raises than necessary.

I’ve gotten so comfortable here how I did not notice them come in, time for me to step up my game before Jess ends up having to call for backup.